Feyness Read online

  The Love by Numbers series

  Nineteen

  Twenty-One

  Three

  Thirteen

  One

  Feyness

  I don't see dead people.

  I see you.

  I see every incarnation of you.

  I see the history of your soul.

  I can see your aura soaked in the blood of your previous lives.

  Most people are inherently good or evil.

  Some flit between darkness and light.

  Few can change the fabric of their essence; it's a fight that most are too weak to win.

  He was once darkness.

  An evil so pure that his very soul is black and yet I am drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  Some days, I feel like I am drowning, the waves of my feelings stealing the very air from my lungs.

  Other days, I feel nothing at all.

  I'm unsure which is worse; gasping for air or dying from this thirst.

  Can you learn to breathe underwater when you find someone worth drowning for?

  Feyness is a dark standalone.

  Readers of a sensitive disposition may want to step away from the book.

  Step away, nothing to see here.

  Readers who like to dance on the dark side, come on in and enjoy the ride.

  “I have found so much beauty in the dark, as I have found a lot of horror in the light.” – Azereth Skivel.

  For you.

  Yes, you.

  You know who you are.

  You’re reading this now.

  Don’t look away, there’s no need to blush.

  All these words are just for you.

  I hate these people with their false sense of entitlement and their ingrained belief that they are worthy of this wealth.

  Everyone else is beneath them; the dregs of humanity, placed on this earth only to serve their needs. Unless your surname is Craven, then they either fall at your feet or sharpen their knives.

  The ballroom is a vision of opulence, and it’s wasted on those who fill it. This is not polite society. The room may be packed with the most powerful and wealthy men in Britain, but these are not good people. Blackness swirls around their forms like a cloak of maleficence, and if they could see what I do when I look at them, they’d be proud. They would be boastful of their wicked deeds, and righteous in their acts of evil.

  Trophy wives, with their fake tits and over-botoxed faces, hang from their arms, discussing the latest scandal or how best to reprimand their gardener for over-pruning their bushes. They disdainfully ignore the other arm candy in the room. The young, often Eastern European girls, who kneel brokenly at their masters’ feet with collars digging into the flesh of their necks and leashes attached to their owners’ wrists, marking them as nothing more than a plaything, a pet; something to discard when broken.

  I avert my eyes from these girls, the blackness of their masters does nothing to disguise the spectrum of colours their souls omit.

  I wonder if I could see the colour of my soul, would I look just like these girls? I may not wear a collar and lead, but I am just as much a prisoner; owned, bartered, dead inside.

  “Miss Craven, how lovely to see you. You are a vision in white. Like a virginal bride just ripe for the picking.”

  My skin crawls with disgust at the sound of his voice. Just hearing his slight lisp, that he tries and fails to cover with a sneer, causes gooseflesh to cover my bare arms.

  “Grant.”

  I avert my gaze, partly from fear, mostly because I do not wish to see the leer in his eyes. A man like Grant does not hide his perverted lust. Had he been higher up in my father’s ranks, it could have been him I belonged to. Instead, I am owned by…

  “Cole hasn’t arrived to claim you yet,” he wraps his arm around my waist digging his bony fingers into the flesh at my hip and guides me through the parting crowd. “If he continues to show his disdain for your father’s generous gift, I might get what was supposed to be mine all along.”

  A shiver creeps down my spine as I keep my eyes locked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the throng that watches us with fascination. I feel their gluttonous eyes, greedily feasting on what is about to take place, waiting with knives ready to gorge on my still beating heart as it’s ripped from my chest.

  His arm tightens around me the closer we get to the circle of men who command this room. My father is holding court amongst his minions, and the rest of the crowd are only here to bask in his depravity.

  Grant leans in to whisper in my ear, and I can taste his whiskey-tainted breath on my next inhale.

  “I do so hope he fucks this up. That pretty white dress of yours will look quite lovely stained red when I defile every orifice you have and mark every inch of your pure and unblemished skin.”

  A full body shiver rolls over him, and he pushes his erection into the flesh of my thigh.

  “If Cole doesn’t want you, I do. I’m going to fuck your virgin arse dry, and by the end of the night you will beg me to let you clean your filth from my cock with your tongue.”

  My stomach convulses, bile rising in my throat, burning away the air from my lungs.

  He laughs. The cloud of black surrounding him engulfs us both, choking me and polluting my airways with its malice.

  I close my eyes for a fraction of a second and will my legs to keep moving forward, ironically seeking the protection of a man, far more evil than the one at my side.

  My father.

  “Ah, Grant. I see you’ve found her.”

  The circle of men part, allowing my temporary tormentor to offer me forward as the main course at this fucked up banquet.

  “Gentlemen, Alec,” Grant nods towards the group, and then at the man responsible for bringing me into the world. “Doesn’t she look the picture of innocence. Cole isn’t here yet to honour your generous gift?”

  I glance at my father who is standing like a king holding court, the men around him shrinking under his dominance. His eyes flash at Grant, the warning in them clear, and like the well behaved sycophant he is, Grant ducks his head and averts his gaze.

  “My apologies, Alec. I do not wish to offend; I am merely disgusted on your behalf for his insolence. If I were to be given a woman such as Faye-”

  “You would never be given a gift as priceless as my daughter. I find your arrogance to assume as much laughable.” My father’s eyes darken, and he steps forward while his circle of wolves tighten the ring that surrounds us.

  Towering a good four inches over Grant’s diminutive five foot eight frame, my father’s tone deepens, and the smaller man feigns bravado by meeting his stare. The twitch at the corner of his eye, combined with the swirl of green that seeps from his pores, gives away his fear, to me at least.

  “I wouldn’t gift you a mongrel to fuck, let alone a valuable prize like Faye.”

  Another step forward brings both men toe to toe, and if Grant knows what’s good for him, he’ll avert his eyes and bow to the king of our world. Part of me, the sick part of me that craves vengeance on these men and women, hopes that he continues to stare. Seeing Grant’s blood spilled all over the polished oak floor of this palatial ballroom, while the colour drains from his soul, would bring a welcome burst of red to this blackness.

  I see the moment he decides his life is more worthy than his pride and his eyes drop to the floor like a good slave. My father’s nostrils flare as he breathes in the scent of his acquiesce and my stomach bottoms out in disappointment.

  “I thought so.” My father laughs as he turns his back on Grant and strides towards his place in the centre of his pack, calling over his shoulder, “Come along Faye. Cole will be here shortly.”

  I make the mistake of taking one last look at Grant before he walks away. His eyes lock w
ith mine and the threat of what he will do to me if he ever gets a chance is written all over his face.

  Even after his humiliating dressing down by a man who would have taken his life without blinking, this vile serpent still has his eyes on me.

  That makes him stupid.

  It’s his stupidity that makes him even more dangerous than I initially gave him credit for.

  Idiots take chances.

  Idiots ignore threats.

  Idiots take and take until they get caught.

  I refuse to get captured by this imbecile, and I refuse to let him see me as weak prey. So I straighten my back, snap my head forward and ignore the lick of fear that tickles my spine.

  Tonight the man that made me will give me to a beast, to use me as he sees fit. I am nothing more than an incentive, a ‘job well done’ bonus. Big corporations reward their top employees with money, holidays, promotions and privileges.

  My father rewards his most successful killer with all these things and more.

  He gets me.

  His only daughter.

  Tonight, Cole Hunter will take me as his lawfully wedded wife.

  Tonight, my father will finally get the son that he’s yearned for his entire life.

  Tonight, I will no longer be me.

  I will be owned.

  I will lose the moniker of Faye Craven and become a Hunter.

  A more fitting name would be prey.

  I cloak myself in numbness.

  My body may be dutifully at my father’s side, but my mind is comfortably muted.

  The art of retreat has been my only respite for the last ten years; a skill I mastered by observing my mother. It was her only form of escape too. Until the day she escaped for good. The day she left me to fend for myself, an eleven-year-old girl in a pit of vipers. Only these vipers maim, tear, pillage and rape before their final death strike, and they do so with a smile on their face.

  She left me in the harsh and unrelenting arms of Alec Craven: King of The Red Order, billionaire, supposed philanthropist, actual cold-blooded killer, slaver, and my dear old Daddy.

  I loved her because she was the only pure colour in my black world.

  I loved her because she tried to keep me safe.

  I hate her because she died trying.

  The day she died was the day my eyes were first opened to the evil that surrounds me. It was the day my heterochromia appeared, caused by a blunt trauma to my head and eye socket.

  Now, not only do I have one green eye and one blue, but I also see things that no person should ever have to see.

  I see you.

  I see your sins.

  I see the very fabric of your soul.

  It’s beautiful and horrifying.

  It’s painful yet soothing.

  It’s not something I can switch off, and it’s not something I have ever revealed to another living soul.

  “I don’t want to go, Mama, you’re scaring me.”

  My bare feet are cold on the icy ground and the small stones that make up our sweeping driveway cut into my feet as my mother drags me towards the car.

  “Hush, baby. We need to leave now. Quickly climb in and buckle up.”

  My mother isn’t dressed any better than I. Her satin chemise barely covers her body, and her red painted toenails looked harsh against her pale skin.

  “But I need Blue; I can’t go anywhere without him. Let me go and fetch him, please Mama.” I whined, not understanding why I’d been woken during the still of night and dragged from my bed. I was so disorientated that I’d left my bear, my best friend who went everywhere with me, on my bed.

  Her hand tightens on my arm and she hisses out a shaky breath, “No! Blue has to stay. Get in the car, Faye. We don’t have time for your tears.”

  Mama has never raised her voice to me before. The fact she just did scares me far more than being dragged from my warm bed.

  “Mama…” the tears fall silently down my cheeks as I climb into the back seat, and my bare legs hit cold leather, “I’m scared. Where are we going? Does Father know we are leaving?”

  Her head snaps back towards the house, and I watch silently as she nods towards a shadowed figure in the doorway. A man I think, but in the darkness I can’t be sure. She bends over to fasten my seatbelt, her hands shake so badly it takes her a few attempts before she clicks it into place.

  I watch as her pale skin stretches over her ribs, exposing every contour of her bones, and she drags in a rough lungful of air, almost fortifying herself before she replies.

  “No, baby. Father doesn’t know.” She straightens and takes my face into her hands; her thumbs gently wipe away the tears from my frigid skin.

  “Father can never know.” Her eyes lock with mine and what I see there halts my tears, and I nod once, adding in a whisper, “Okay, Mama.”

  She places a single kiss to my forehead and quietly snicks the door closed, pushing it with her hip to ensure it’s caught the latch. Then she rushes around to the driver’s side and jumps in, starting the car without putting on her seatbelt.

  She takes another quick look over her shoulder and in the next second, we are pulling away from our summer home in The Cotswolds.

  The sprawling estate looms darkly behind us as we creep down the gravel driveway, our only witness the fat, bloated moon that shines starkly in the inky sky. The crunch of stones under the tyres, an ominous soundtrack to our departure.

  When we reach the security gates, they open without a problem and as we hit the tarmac of the country road, my mother lets out a shuddering breath of relief, before putting the car into a higher gear and speeding away down the unlit road.

  About a mile from our summer estate is a quaint hump bridge, only big enough for one car to pass. I always love crossing over the bridge and dreaming up stories of princesses and trolls and the brave knights that save them. There are no knights to save us tonight. No brave men to come to our rescue. No saviour to spare us from the screams, the blood and the pain.

  I’m not sure what happened next. All I remember is my Mama screaming, the car swerving, us hitting something at speed and then rolling. The next thing I remember is water. Lots and lots of cold and murky river water pouring in through the smashed windscreen.

  “Mama!” My scream comes out as a gurgle, pain in my chest burns and pins me against the seat.

  “Mama!” Despite my laboured breathing and the pain, I cry out again but no reply comes.

  I look up, my eyes flicking from the water pouring in and flooding the interior of the car, to the pale, lifeless arm hanging limply at the side of the driver’s seat.

  “Mama!” My shout is more a sob. I can’t see the rest of her, but she’s not moving and that knowledge fills me with dread. I turn my head as much as I can and try to move my limbs, I have to get to her and wake her up before we drown.

  The pressure on my chest increases, the pain lancing through me and pooling in my belly. I finally look down at what is restraining me and see a branch wedged into my chest, just under my ribs. The end has pierced my flesh and blood swirls around me in the water that has now risen to my knees. My eyes follow the limb, watching as it gets thicker and thicker, following its path of knots and bark.

  “No! Mama!”

  My scream is piercing, ripping at the back of my throat, bursting blood vessels and causing metallic tasting liquid to spill from my lips.

  The bough that tapered off to a sharp point and wedged itself in my chest, initially pierced the chair in front of me. Crimson surrounds the mangled seat, the impact of the large trunk splitting both the leather and bending the metal frame.

  Before it tore apart the seat, it ripped apart my mother. She lies on the other side of that chair, her body obliterated by a branch the size of a small tree. Her flesh split open, her bones snapped, her heart torn to shreds and her lifeblood staining the river water.

  I want to die.

  I want to close my eyes and join my mother.

  I wait for the swell of wate
r to steal my last breath and carry me away.

  On the edge of consciousness, with icy water lapping at my lips, the glass window to my left explodes. I close my eyes hoping it signifies that peace is soon coming and let out one last breath.

  Muffled words, “Leave the bitch in here to rot.”, “Take the girl. She can always be sold.”, invade my last thoughts, but it’s the searing pain across my chest that makes me stutter and gulp for air before succumbing to the welcoming blackness of my mind.

  “Faye, are you listening to me, girl?” The deep timbre of my father’s voice brings me out of my head.

  “Yes, Sir.” I look up at his handsome face, too attractive for a man whose essence is stained black.

  “I said, it’s time. Cole has arrived to claim his bride.” The glint in his beautiful ocean blue eyes could be mistaken for joy, but the nefarious grey mist that seeps from his pores tells another tale, if only to me.

  “Yes, Sir.” I give the only answer I can. Having already been told what is expected of me, I do not wish for him to repeat those words again for the enjoyment of the sadistic men that surround us.

  He leans in, baring his ivory teeth in a sneer, “Do not disappoint me, girl. I’ve told you what your wifely duties are. I expect evidence of your virgin blood being spilled by morning.”

  He pierces me with his glare, but I know better than to show weakness.

  “Suck him and fuck him with every hole that you have. You belong to him. He can use your innocence however he sees fit.” His eyes twinkle with malice, “Hopefully you have the blood of your whore mother running through your veins. It should come as second nature to you.”

  If my father ever wanted to wound me, he knew the only way to do so was via my mother, but not tonight, tonight I was impenetrable to his poisoned barbs; I needed my strength for another foe. I may have feared my father for the last ten years, but I now had another master to submit to, one I had never met but heard tales of and if the stories were true, his depravity matched my father’s, if not exceeded it.

  “Yes, Father.”